Tired Days
This is one of my Tired Days, which I'd forgotten about. On my other trips, Tired Days have been optional, though the trip went better if I observed them. This time, they seem to be bodily enforced.
Fortunately, having extended the trip makes me not feel rushed. I was coughing and hacking up lungs, so I didn't smoke anything yesterday afternoon or night ... and this morning, I could feel my damned back again for the first time since I got to Amsterdam. So today is Take It Very Easy & Use A Pipe Instead of A Bong Day. (Helluva long acronym, that.) Right now I'm sitting in The Green House drinking fresh mint tea with honey and gently smoking "Hercules," a sativa strain the weed guy here swears is even better for pain than my beloved Super Lemon Haze. I haven't decided yet.
(Eating cannabis is always a tossup and usually a failure for me. Recently I've heard even raw tourists talking about how their "space cake" had no effect. So my faith in the THC-laced brownies and muffins of Amsterdam, never high, is now lower than ever. By regulation, they just can't put enough in there.)
OK, you guys. I've been avoiding this subject, but in the land of huge rubber dicks and porn stills in every other window, I can't anymore: TESTOSTERONE. I had heard about this side effect, but nothing could have really prepared me. Right now, I basically want to stick it in anything with two legs, though as yet I've nothing much to stick. I'm becoming a dangerous creature. I'm totally checking out the window girls in the Red Light District. Yesterday I saw my best friend here and spent the whole visit entertaining filthy thoughts about him (and he's hot, you bet, but our relationship isn't LIKE THAT). The most not-my-type man in the world can walk by and my thoughts will start screaming, "I bet you have a DICK!!! Whip it out and let's see what you can do with it! DICK DICK DICK!" Basically, it's puberty all over again except that this time I know what I'm missing.